


Tremolo

by unscriptedemily



Series: Sonataverse [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Fluff, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Modern Era, Music, Musicians, and now i think i have carpal tunnel. and my neck hurts, bye, i literally wrote all of this today without stopping, like it's the same as canon except they have cell phones and piano concerts, so u better enjoy this ok, this is like some kind of really convoluted modern-Amestris au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy stares, unable to move, unable to breathe, at the stage, and Edward- golden, burning, beautiful- looks up from the piano, and grins sheepishly at the audience.</p><p>There is a heartbeat of pure, undiluted silence; then the applause like a wave, like a roar.</p><p>__</p><p>Alternatively: the AU where Ed is a famous pianist, and Roy? Roy just really likes music. (Or maybe he just likes Ed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tremolo

**Author's Note:**

> DID SOMEONE SAY PIANIST!EDWARD ELRIC??? Oh, that's right, I did! and then I spent all of today writing it instead of building my new bed. LAAAME ;n;  
> anyway this is vaguely inspired by shigatsu wa kimi no uso, except no one dies, and everything is happy. except for the angst which managed to sneak its way in. why does it do that.  
> Also, I really really like this au, so expect more of it in the future lmao (also: fuck titles)  
> Pls enjoy <3
> 
> \--
> 
> Tremolo: Quick repetition of the same note or the rapid alternation between two notes.

 

 

The concert hall is huge, with a wide, polished wood stage at the front, currently obscured by a sweeping curtain of dark red velvet, and a high domed ceiling complete with ornately decorated bits of stone where it meets the wall. There’ve got to be fifty rows of seats; Roy and his date are sitting at the very back. Premium seating. It’s a wonderful view.  

He’s been to piano concerts before, but never a competition. The judges are seated right at the front, clipboards and stern faces at the ready. Roy’s date, Laura, is smiling as she looks down at the front of the stage. She’s a lovely woman; it was her idea to come here. Roy wonders if she’s realised that he’s already pulling away, ready to break things off, because she’s clutching his arm tighter than before as if to make sure he doesn’t run away. They always do.

A hush falls over the audience, and Roy looks up from the programme- Amestris National Piano Competition Finals- to see the curtains draw back. The whisper of the velvet brushing over the wooden floor is the only sound in the entire hall.

The host walks onstage, dressed smartly in coattails and suit, and as he introduces the running order Roy’s mind starts to wander. Laura nudges his arm and he looks down to see her smiling at him. He smiles back, smooth and charming, and she blushes slightly.

Inwardly, Roy sighs. It’s not as though he doesn’t _like_ her; he does. Laura really is wonderful; she’s funny and intelligent and beautiful, and has impeccable taste in music and date-places.  
He feels a little cliché using the _it’s not you, it’s me_ excuse, but it really is. He’s just- bored. And he doesn’t really know _why._

The first contestant walks onstage, a girl dressed in a dark blue gown that shimmers as she moves. The grand piano is set in the centre of the stage, and even Roy, who’s never played piano in his life, has to admit that it’s beautiful, all shining dark wood and gleaming keys. The girl sits down, and after a pause in which Roy swears he can hear the whole audience take and hold a collective breath, she starts to play.

And so it passes; contestant after contestant, some pieces different, some piece the same, all played to what Roy is sure is a professional standard. After a while they seem to blur together and all that’s left is the sweet echo of the music in his ears. The judges take a minute or two after each performance to confer and shuffle their notes.

There’s an intermission halfway through and Roy buys Laura some champagne in a plastic glass, and they sit and talk about nothing while people in dark uniforms adjust the piano seat onstage. Then the break is over and they’re sitting down again, the heady strains of music softening everything into haze.

And then the final contestant is called, and Roy snaps right back to his senses.

 

It’s a boy, or a man; whatever he is he looks about eighteen and he introduces himself as Edward Elric. He’s wearing these close-cut slacks and a fitted waistcoat, and his hair- long, golden, shining- is swept into a ponytail. His eyes are almost the exact same shade of gold; they pierce the dimness of the hall and cut straight through Roy, sending an electric spark fizzing down his spine. He’s short, too, Roy notices, and he walks with a peculiar kind of grace, like every inch of the stage is his and his alone.

That’s not the most unusual thing about him, though.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms- and his right arm is made completely of metal.

Roy’s heard of it before; _automail_ , the new high-tech prosthetics that are said to work almost as well as normal limbs. This boy’s automail is an elegant flash of silver, contrasting perfectly with his hair and eyes, and at the sight of it, the whole audience takes a sharp collective breath.

He sits down at the piano and something in Roy has gone utterly still and silent.

Then he begins to play.

His arm catches the light as he moves, fingers light and impossibly quick on the keys; Roy is certain that that kind of dexterity from the automail must take years of practice and familiarity. _Who is this boy_?

Roy barely hears the song itself; he’s transfixed on the pianist- Edward- as he plays. Even from this distance, Roy can see his eyes burning; see the fierce look on his face. It’s like he’s completely immersed in the music, a few times Roy is sure he sees his eyes close; he’s concentrating but somehow he’s still- loose; Roy doesn’t know how to describe it.  
It’s not that he makes it look easy; it’s more as though he’s saying, _look, look at this music. Look at how much effort I put in to learn this. Look at how I_ own _it._ It’s as though the sound isn’t sound at all, but an extension of his body that he knows inside and out. Where the other contestants played like their pieces were just sheets of music that they’d learned my rote, Edward plays as though the music is a _part_ of him as much as he is a part of it.

There’s something inescapably intimate about watching this performance, and Roy finds himself leaning forwards, drawn in by the sheer power of the music and the boy who controls it.

When it comes to an end, Roy finds something inside him crying out in protest, longing to bring it back; a shiver runs all the way through him. He stares, unable to move, at the stage, and Edward looks up from the piano, grins sheepishly at the audience.

There is a heartbeat of pure, undiluted silence, then the applause like a wave, a roar.

Roy is on his feet with the rest of the audience, clapping his hands raw; several people around him are sniffing, their eyes wet. Someone is whistling. A some others are cheering. Roy feels- kind of drunk, actually.

Edward’s grin spreads wider, and is it just Roy or are they staring right at each other?

The moment passes almost as soon as it comes; Edward’s eyes move away from his and the spell is broken; Roy can breathe freely again.

Laura is looking at him. He turns and smiles at her, but something is missing. _Edward Elric_.

  
***  
  
Roy isn’t at all surprised when Edward wins the competition.

He comes onstage, his waistcoat unbuttoned now, and accepts the trophy and bouquet with another half-grin, disappearing back into the wings as soon as the applause dies down again.

Roy is the first out of the door.

He says goodbye to Laura in the foyer, waits with her while the taxi arrives, sends her off with a brief kiss and a promise to call her that he knows he won’t keep, and then he’s turning around, barely managing to stop himself from running. There’s a woman by the front desk selling bunches of flowers you can give to the performers. He buys one, writes _Edward Elric_ on the card, leaving it unsigned.  
The door leading backstage swings shut behind him as he starts down the corridor.

There’s a door at the end of the hall; and beyond that a second corridor with some smaller rooms. Preparation rooms, Roy guesses. For a moment, he stands there, unsure what to do now; already he’s realising what a stupid plan this was- he should turn back, give the flowers to Laura some other time…

Edward’s voice is coming from a room near the end of the corridor.

“- _god_ , Win, it’s _fine_. Look, just leave it, you c’n mess around with it when we get _home_ -,”

A girl’s voice, hot-tempered, replies. “Is this your job? No, Ed, your job is to shut up and play the damn piano; _don’t_ tell me what to do with my own automail-,”

“ _Your_ automail? You might have made it, Win, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one it’s _attached_ to-,”

Roy can’t help his heart sinking; this girl, Win, and Edward seem to be on familiar terms. _What did you expect_ , he asks himself, o _f course he has a girlfriend._

“Not for long, Edward Elric,” the girl is saying, “if you want to keep it you better shut up right now and let me look at the nerve connections- where did you say it was hurting?”

There’s a brief pause, and Edward- _Ed_ \- mutters, “At the top, near the port. And a bit at the wrist, but that was only when I was doing those fuckin’ tremolos- you know the bit in the mi-,”

“Yeah, yeah,” says the girl, “Alright, let me see…”

Silence falls again, and Roy, very carefully, moves towards the door, setting the flowers on the floor outside.

Then he turns and leaves; back down the corridor and out into the bright bustle of the foyer.  
Outside, the air is cool; it’s nearly nine pm and now that it’s nearing December, night falls much quicker than before. He dials the taxi number, and as he waits, hands in his coat pockets, he hears snatches of conversation from the people leaving the building around him.

“-Elric, he’s famous, apparently he’s some kind of musical prodigy-,”

A prodigy, like Chopin, or Mozart.

“-heard that he got his automail when he was, like, ten, or something,”

A ten year old with an automail arm. What happened? An accident?

 “-mum’s friend went to see one of his concerts in September, he got a standing ovation then, too…”

The whispers are fervent, enamoured. Roy breathes out a cloud of expelled carbon dioxide and watches the faint pinpricks of light in the clouds as the stars peek through the darkening sky.

“Wasn’t that amazing, though?” Wistful, awestruck.

A hint of jealousy: “It was like nothing I’ve ever seen before!”

The taxi pulls up on the curb beside him, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Still, as he slides into the seat and tells the driver his address, he can’t stop thinking about those golden eyes, like leaping flames, and the shock that went right through him when they met his own.

 

 

***

It’s dark outside by the time Winry finishes tweaking the automail; Ed’s had his eyes fixed out the window to distract himself from the sharp flares of pain as she adjusts the connections with a tiny silver wrench, and when she finally screws the plate back in place and leans back with a satisfied smile, the stars are already out. The sky is deep, dark blue.

Ed remembers that guy, at the back of the concert hall; inky black hair and some seriously unfair cheekbones, and the way their eyes met across the heads of a thousand other faces. Like a fucking movie or some shit. Like…

Winry punches him lightly in the arm, standing up. “All done,” she announces, and Ed blinks, turning away from the window.

“Fuckin’ _finally_ ,” he groans, standing up, tugging at his shirt. Stupid fucking etiquette; next time he’s just gonna wear jeans and a sweatshirt and _fuck_ their expectations. “This collar is _killing_ me, let’s _go_.”

Winry rolls her eyes, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Whatever. When does Al get back from France again?”

Ed picks up his sheet music, stuffing it into his bag. The pages crinkle. Oh, well. Not like he needs it, anyway.

“You’ve been asking me that for, like, eight days straight,” he says and grins. “You gonna admit you fancy him already or what?”

Winry turns bright, paint-bomb red, and plunges her hand into her bag, coming back up with a heavy metal wrench the size of her fucking forearm-

“Say that _one more time_ , Ed, I _dare_ you-,”

“Fucking hell, Win, I’m _sorry_ -,” He yanks the door open before she knocks him out, and- almost steps directly onto the bunch of flowers outside the door. “What the fuck?”

“Oh, how sweet!” Winry’s attitude changes in the blink of an eye, and Ed represses a shudder. It’s always so _creepy_ when she does that. She picks the flowers up, opening the little card attached, and her eyebrows rise slowly.

“What?” asks Ed, craning past her to get a closer look, “What’s it say?”

“Just your name,” says Winry, trying to shove them into his hands, and he glares at her until she rolls her eyes and takes them back. “Nice handwriting, though. Nice flowers, too- oh, you’re such a baby, Ed, it’s a _compliment_.”

“Dead plants is a compliment?” They walk down the corridor, flicking off light switches as they go.

“ _Yes_. Someone obviously liked your performance so much they bought these for you! Weird how there’s no name, though. Maybe it’s a secret admirer!”

Ed makes a face. “Gross. No thanks. ‘Sides, I was shit today. That’s probably _your_ fault, machine freak-,”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“Sorry, sorry-!”

Winry straightens her bag on her shoulder with a huff, shoving the wrench into her belt: a warning. Ed winces.  
  
 The foyer is dimly lit and empty except for the flower seller when they exit the corridor; the woman smiles at them as they walk past.

“Wait, Ed!” Winry stops, tugging at his arm to get him to slow down.

“ _What_? I want to _go_ , I want takeout already-,”

But Winry’s already hurrying over to the flower seller, holding out the bunch of flowers from the floor.

“Excuse me,” she says, “but we were just wondering if you remembered who sent these?”

The woman looks at the flowers, frowning slightly. For fuck’s _sake_ , Ed wants to get going already. The air blowing in from outside is getting colder by the second; the first signs of winter. Should’ve brought a jacket.

“Mm,” says the woman, snapping her fingers lightly, “yes, that’s it! A young man, late twenties I’d say-,” she pauses, winks at Winry, “very memorable indeed, if you know what I mean... ”  
Winry laughs, delighted, and Ed… doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” Winry asks, grabbing Ed’s arm and pulling him over; he digs in his heels but as usual, there’s no point trying to resist. What the hell does Al even see in her?  “Only, he didn’t leave a name or anything.”

The woman nods. “Dark hair, _very_ dark eyes…like a movie star!” She pauses again, and this time she winks at Ed. “Looks like he enjoyed your performance very much, young man.”

Ed feels the blush hit him like a fuckin’ train- what the hell is _wrong_ with these people? Fuck Winry and her plots to set him up with people- this happens every goddamn time some random audience member sends him flowers, or a card, or something- one time there was this creepy old dude with a moustache who sent him poetry and designer cufflinks; Ed had ended up giving them to Al and having to threaten the guy to make him leave him alone.

“O _kay_ ,” he says loudly, “that’s really great, anyway, we need to go now, bye, thanks for everything-,”

(Dark hair and dark eyes, looks like a movie star; what if- but no, that guy was one in a thousand other likely audience members; shut _up_ )

And he grabs Winry’s bag strap and books it out of there.

“What was that about?” asks Winry when they’re outside, waiting for Roseto come and pick them up. “You’re so-,”

Ed scowls, folds his arms- _ow_ , fuckin’ sore-ass automail- and huffs out a sigh. “Why’d you always do that?” he asks.

Winry raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“ _You_ know. Why’re you always trying to, I don’t know, _set me up_ or some shit?”

Winry bites her lip. “Do you not want me to?” she asks, finally, and Ed rolls his eyes so hard the ISS could see it and mistake it for a small change in atmospheric pressure-

“Well, _duh_!”

“ _Fine_ ,” says Winry, folding her arms, too. “I won’t do it again!”

“ _Fine_ ,” says Ed, and they stand like that, simmering, until Rose pulls up next to them in her new car.

It’s a dark red Accord with four wheel drive and heated seats, a top speed of one hundred and thirty four miles per hour, and a built-in sat nav. Ed knows this because, for the last week that Winry’s been staying with him and Al, she hasn’t _shut up about it_.

“Hi, guys!”  says Rose when they get in, Winry calling shotgun before Ed can even open his goddamn mouth. He slumps in the back seat, tossing his bag onto the seat beside him, and revels in the escape from the frigid air outside.

“’Sup,” he says.

“Hi, Rose,” says Winry, and leans back in her chair with a contented sigh. “God, these seats are _amazing_.”

Rose grins as she reverses out of the parking lot. “I know, right? I would’ve liked a merc or something, maybe, but this is pretty good, too. How’d the show go?”

Ed lets out a long, forlorn groan that uses up his breath and grows steadily louder as it goes on. When he’s finished, Rose looks sympathetically at him in the wing mirror.

“That bad, huh?”

Winry rolls her eyes, twiddling the dials on the radio. “He’s just being dramatic. It went amazing, of course- apart from a few loose nerve connections in the arm, but he won anyway, so not too shabby, if I do say so myself.”

“Of course you do,” Ed mutters, and Winry makes an exaggerated pouting expression at him.

“Poor baby Ed,” she says and then her pout morphs into something decidedly more evil. “Anyway, Rose, look! Ed’s got himself a _secret admirer_!”

“For fuck’s sake, Win, would you shut up about the fucking _flowers_?” Ed says, as Winry holds up the bouquet for Rose to see.

“Now he’s got two bunches of flowers,” Winry continues, “And a trophy. _As well_ _as_ a secret admirer, and of course, more credits on his public appearance. Today was officially a big success.”

“What are you, my manager?” asks Ed, as Rose admires the flowers.  

“Might as well be,” Winry retorts, tossing the trophy at him. It gleams a little in the light, and Ed catches it before it smashes him in the forehead, setting it on the seat next to him. “What with everything I do for your public image.”

“Hang on,” says Ed, sitting up straighter, “what d’you mean, _everything you do_. You don’t do anything except occasionally cause me excruciating pain and try to set me up with every stranger who makes eye contact-,”

“Ex _cuse_ me!” says Winry, “I help you prepare for interviews, don’t I? Like that one time with the reporter who tried to break in, and you were going to throw her out of the window, but then I said you should just give her a comment, and then I told you what to say, and you did, and her article was very nice and called you a genius.”

“That was _one time_! And _everyone_ calls me a genius, it’s not like-,”

“Well,” says Rose loudly, “I think it’s great that you won, Ed, and also that it’s nice that someone got you flowers but it doesn’t necessarily mean that we should be trying to set you up with complete strangers.”

There is a brief silence, in which Ed stops mid-sentence, and Winry throws up her hands in defeat.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says, and Rose laughs again, patting Winry consolingly on the arm.

“I said _fine_ ,” Winry mutters. Ed turns away from her, resting his forehead against the window and watching as raindrops start to appear, dragged across the glass by the force of the air flush against the car.

The streetlight speed past, blurring into one continuous streak of bright orange light, and Rose flicks on her headlights to illuminate the road ahead. Ed leans back in his seat, closing his eyes.  


-And opening them again immediately after when he realises he’s thinking about that fucking dude at the back of the hall, and the way their eyes met from so far away, and-

Maybe Winry’s right; maybe he needs to go on a fucking _date_ \- but it’s been three months since _Ling_ and he still feels sick to his fucking stomach when he thinks about going out and finding someone and doing all the shit he and Ling did; laughing and touching and going on stupid dates to theme parks and aquariums and actually, truly, _knowing_ someone and letting them know you, too.

He can’t _face_ that, not yet. Because he’d thought he knew what he was getting into, and maybe at first it was fine, it was _great_ , but it didn’t take long for it to fall apart and he knew now that half the time he’d just been _kidding_ himself…even if he kind of misses the way Ling would look at him like he was something precious, something that _mattered_ beyond awards and fucking _Pianist of the Year_.  


Someone who made sense on their own, without having to be a fucking Piano playing genius at the same time.

Ed rubs his eyes, drags a hand through his hair. God. He needs a drink.

 

***

 

Another weekend, another concert. Roy feels a little stupid, googling Edward’s name and finding his website and looing down the list for concert dates- but at the same time, he feels a kind of thrill at the thought of seeing him again, feeling that out-of-this-world, five-senses-immersion feeling when he plays.

This time, he goes with Maes and Gracia and Elysia. Maes gives him a knowing look when Ed walks onstage, and Roy pointedly ignores him, focusing on-

Well. _Everything_.

This time, Edward wears all black- a button-down shirt and slacks- and his automail is shining dully in the dim stage lights. This hall is smaller than before, but Roy finds himself no less transfixed than the last time. Eventually, even Maes stops wiggling his eyebrows at him and falls silent and stunned.

Ed plays three songs, each one progressively more beautiful than the last- or maybe that’s just Roy, getting more and more invested as time goes on. He can’t stop staring at the way Ed’s ponytail slips over his shoulder as he leans into the piano, the muscles moving beneath his shirt, the way his fingers, both metal and flesh, dance over the keys.

When it’s over- and it does end, eventually, leaving roy breathless and bereft- there is a brief silence again, a moment in which the every person in the hall slowly returns to themselves and remembers how to breathe again. And then the applause, leaping thunder and whistles.

Ed bows quickly, and straightens, absentmindedly fiddling with the bottom of his shirt, and…

His eyes lift, wandering over the audience. They find Roy’s, falter. Roy can’t move. They stare at each other across the hall, golden fixed on black, and when Ed finally tears his gaze away, his cheeks are dusted pink. Roy feels faint.

Maes turns to look him straight in the eyes when they’re walking out, and says, “Roy, go and buy him flowers.”

Roy- stops walking. Gracia pats him on the shoulder as Elysia nods fervently.

“Yes! Uncle Roy! I want to buy him flowers, too,” she says, looking over at the flower stand, and- god, is that the same woman as before?

“Seriously, Roy,” says Maes, “I saw the way you were looking at each other! You have _got_ to get this one!”

“’ _Get this one_ ’?” Roy echoes, “You do realise you sound like a five year old, Maes?”

His best friend sticks his tongue out at him, bending down to swing his daughter into his arms, and Roy rolls his eyes.

“Which flowers shall we get for him, then, Princess?” Maes asks Elysia, leading the way to the flower stand, and Roy trails along behind like a lost dog.

While Elysia chatters excitedly with the woman running the stall, Roy stares at the array of flowers. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching for a bunch of tulips, bright yellow, so vibrantly coloured they remind him of Ed’s eyes. Maes grins at him. He clears his throat and snatches his hand away, shoving them into his pockets.

_Stupid, stupid_ . 

The woman glances directly at him as she says to Elysia, “we’ve got a lot of people buying him flowers today, so I’ll give him yours personally, okay?”

“So he’ll definitely get it?” Elysia asks, tongue poking out as she writes her message in the card on her bouquet.

“Certainly, little lady,” says the woman, and smiles. Roy swallows, and Maes nudges him.

“Go _on_!” he hisses, and he is a menace to society and needs to be stopped. “What harm can it do?”

Well. There is that. “ _Fine_ ,” says Roy, and picks out the bunch of tulips, handing the money to the smiling woman.

“Thank you very much,” she says, taking the flowers and tying a ribbon around them. “Would you like to give them personally, sir, or…?”

“Oh,” says Roy, _shit_ , “No, thank you- I mean, it’s fine if you could…deliver them… ” Oh, god, what’s wrong with him? He’s losing the ability to form coherent sentences. He needs to get out of here.

The woman- Roy realises her name badge reads Karin- smiles again, nodding. “Certainly.”

Roy mutters a thank you, and he’s never been so glad to leave a place as he is now.

 

***

Another weekend, another concert. Another bunch of flowers, this time handed to him by the flower seller, along with a suggestive look that makes him turn bright red. He almost runs out the door, leaving Winry behind.

God. He takes a deep breath of the sharp night air and tries to forget the guy’s face. The hall had been smaller this time, he could see him properly through the crowd…

Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

His automail twinges again and his stomach clenches. Winter always brings an onset of nausea and phantom pains; Ed leans down to massage his knee as Winry comes through the door along with a gust of hot air from inside, waving the flowers.

“Karin said it’s from the _same guy_!” she says excitedly, and Ed frowns at her.

“Who the hell is Karin?” he asks. Winry shoves the flowers into her bag along with the rest of the shit he got given today; where’s he gonna put all of it? Al’s coming back tomorrow, he’ll probably find some room. Or maybe Ed could just surreptitiously feed it to one of the eight million demon-cats roaming the flat; that’d work.

“Karin, the _flower seller_ ,” says Winry, as if he’s stupid, and he scowls at her. “Don’t look at me like that- anyway, it’s the same guy, which means I’m right, you do have a secret admirer and you owe me fifty cens.”

“What the fuck?” Ed stares at her, “We never made a bet!”

Winry wrinkles her nose. “Well, whatever, I’ll just add it onto the end of your automail bill. Where’s Rose? I’m _freezing_.”

“ _You’re_ freezing?” Ed asks, “I’m pretty sure my arm has turned into a block of ice. Isn’t there any way to make automail less fantastic at conducting?”

“It’s made of _metal_ , dumbass,” says Winry, but she extricates a scarf from her bag and hands it to him. “Wrap that around it or something. Jeez, you’re the one who did science at college, has quitting school to become a full-time music snob made you lose brain cells or something?”

He winds the scarf around his arm so it looks like he’s got one normal sized arm and one where he’s just really fucking ripped. “That rich coming from _you_ , automail nerd. ‘Sides, I’m allowed to be forgetful, I didn’t get any fucking sleep last night.”

Winry is jumping up and down on the balls of her feet to stay warm. “How come?” she asks, and wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Were you thinking about Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome who keeps sending you flowers?”

“One,” says Ed, shoving her in the arm, “He doesn’t _keep_ sending me flowers; it’s only fucking happened _twice_ , and two, no, I wasn’t. I- had a nightmare, actually, so fuck you.”

Winry stops bouncing. “Oh,” she said quietly, and then, “Sorry. Is it getting bad again?”

Ed shrugs, staring up at the sky. It’s not as clear as it was last week; this time, wisps of cloud disrupt the constellations. “’Bout as bad as ever. It helps to compose shit, clears my head. So that’s what I was doing.” _Until four a.m. when I finally exhausted myself so much I could fall asleep without seeing my mum’s dead face whenever I closed my eyes._

She nods. “Is that what you played today? The second piece, I mean. I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

Ed nods. “Yeah. It doesn’t have a name. ‘S just ‘Shit I wrote when I was sleep-deprived’.”

She laughs, and he looks down the road, craning his neck to try to discern the license plates of an approaching car.  
Last night wasn’t the shittiest it’s ever been, but it was close _. Fucking_ _dreams_. Composing kind of sucked because it was hard to hold it all in his head; whenever this happened his room was always littered with pieces of score paper afterwards; mountains of screwed up sheet music where it hadn’t gone the way he wanted it. His handwriting was shit, too, so most of the time he could barely read whatever the fuck he wrote down, and when it got past two a.m. shit started to get a little weird- blurry vision, shaky hands, the urge to sneak the _x files_ theme song into the melody; that kind of thing.  
  
Still, he’d got a new piece out of it, so that was something, right?

Their clouds of frozen breath light up orange as Rose pulls up next to them, waving, and Ed lets out a deep groan of relief when he shuts the door behind him, letting the warmth seep into his aching muscles.

“Sorry I’m late,” says Rose, and glances at Winry’s overflowing bag. “Oh, wow! Looks like you had another successful concert, Ed,”

Too busy closing his eyes and succumbing to the blissful warmth, Ed is unable to form words and manages an indifferent grunt instead.

Winry brandishes the flowers from Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome like a warrior brandishing the decapitated head of their final enemy.

“They’re form the _same guy_ ,” she says, and Rose’s eyebrows rise.

“Seriously?”

Winry nods so hard Ed is surprised- and disappointed- that her head doesn’t fly off.

“ _Seriously_.”

Rose’s eyes meet Ed’s in the wing mirror. He makes a face at her, and she laughs.

“It must be fate,” she declares, and Winry starts cackling.

“I hate both of you,” Ed mumbles, but they aren’t deterred at all.

Fucking hell. At least Al’ll be back soon; _he_ ’ _ll_ be on Ed’s side. Probably. Hopefully.

 

***

“So this is, you know, a regular thing, now?” Maes asks, raising his glass like he’s toasting Roy. “you go to his concerts and make passionate eye contact, and then you send him flowers?”

Roy groans, and pours himself more wine. “ _No_ ,” he says, “shut up, Maes, I’m serious- stop _laughing-_ ,”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Maes, pushing his glasses further up his nose, still grinning, “It’s just- oh, man, Roy, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so infatuated! It’s like you’re a teenager again!”

“That’s another thing,” Roy says, “He’s eighteen. I’m almost thirty _one_. That’s just- you have to see how there’s something _really_ weird about this, Maes.”

Gracia comes in holding a plate of her homemade apple pie. She sets it on the table and looks at Roy thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she says, “my sister’s fiancée is ten years older and they’re perfectly happy. Just because there’s an age difference doesn’t mean it won’t work out.”

She sits down next to Maes, and he takes her hand, kissing it. “Gracia,” he says, “You are so very, very wise. So very wise and beautiful. Will you marry me?”

She laughs, leaning down to kiss him lightly on the nose. “Alas,” she says, “I am already married.”

Maes gasps dramatically, turning to Roy, who is watching them with a raised eyebrow. His chest hurts.

“Did you _hear_ that, Roy?” Maes asks, “The love of my life is married! Who can it be, this undoubtedly handsome, strong, kind, fantastic husband of yours?”

Gracia purses her lips, tilting her head to the side, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, I don’t know about handsome or strong…” she says, and Maes clutches his chest as though he’s been shot.

“You’re wounding me,” he says, and she laughs again, and they are so in love, and Roy has never felt so lonely.

He smiles, says something witty, and downs his glass of wine.

He hasn’t forgotten the girl he heard with Ed, either. She’s probably his girlfriend, and Roy’s just misreading the whole situation. There are so many reasons to leave it be, to never go to another concert again, to never buy flowers for him again; he was fine before, after all- he could call Laura; it’s been a while, but she’d probably go out again…or if she says no, then it doesn’t matter; finding dates has always come easy to Roy…

Even as he thinks it, pouring himself more wine and tipping it down his throat, he knows he can’t. He can’t stay away. The gravitational pull of the music, the inexorable lure of Ed’s eyes…it’s magnetic; it’s inevitable. Every time Roy hears Ed play, he falls a little further.

Maes is watching him from across the table, concern flickering in his eyes. Before he can say anything, Roy smiles brightly, reaches for a second slice of pie, compliments the chef.

He knows Maes can see right through him, but thankfully, he doesn’t make a comment.

Maybe…maybe he should force himself not to go again. It would be best for everyone involved; this _thing_ that happens between them whenever their eyes meet, it’s never going to lead to anything. And if it does, it’ll just end up being another bitter memory, a sour taste in the back of Roy’s mouth. No, it’s best to just stop it now, before things get any worse.

The next time will be the last time, Roy decides. This weekend will be the sixth and final time he goes to watch Edward Elric play. It’s too dangerous otherwise. It’s too much.

 

***

Ed’s gotten used to finding Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome in the crowd by now- although, he isn’t actually one hundred percent sure that the Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome with the amazing eyes that comes to every one of his concerts is the same Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome who’s sending him flowers after each event. For the sake of brevity, though, he’s just gotten used to equating the two in his head. So, whatever.  
 Fuck it; he’s never gonna _speak_ to the guy anyway; he’s never gonna find out, so why the hell not, you know?

Every time, Ed leaves a little earlier, hoping to catch the guy on his way out, or bump into him in the corridor or some shit. But he never does. He’s always gone by the time Ed arrives in the foyer, breathless, and Karin is always there in his stead, holding out yet another stupid fucking bunch of flowers with a beaming smile.

 _Fuck you_ , _dickwipe_ , Ed thinks as he eyes the six vases lined up on the windowsill in the kitchen, tugging on his waistcoat, _I don’t want your goddamn flowers, I want your fucking tongue in my mouth._

Shit, no- he didn’t mean that. That was not a thing, not a thing at _all_. Not even a remotely viable option. Nope. No way.

He shakes his head at his reflection in the window, which he can just about see past the tops of the flowers- _not_ because he was in any was less than normal sized, but because the flowers were fucking _huge_. Another reason that making out with Tall Dark Flower Guy was never, ever going to happen: he had stupid taste. In flowers.

Al walks in, dressed in smart trousers and-

“Is that a _tie_?”

He looks up from the complicated tie-tying thing he was doing to give Ed a ‘ _Now, I know you’re not a_ complete _idiot, Brother,’_ look.

“Yes,” he says, “well observed, Brother. It is indeed a-,”

“ _Why_ are you wearing a _tie_?” Ed demands, striding across the room to get a closer look at the piece of material. Jesus, it was just a _concert_ , ties were _not_ needed.

“…Because it’s a concert,” says Al, and frowns at Ed’s collar. “Why are you _not_ wearing a tie?”

“It’s part of my image,” Ed says, walking past him to stuff his feet into his shoes- gross, shiny, lace up smart shoes, because apparently wearing fucking boots was a criminal offence of some shit. “Also, I fucking hate ties. Are we going?”

Al sighs a long-suffering sigh, and gets his coat from the hook by the door. “Yes, Brother, we’re going. Where’s Winry?”

“She’s gone ahead,” says Ed, shrugging, “to set up. Usually I go with her, but Rose is bringing her girlfriend tonight, so she doesn’t have room for me, Winry _and_ you.”

“Oh.” Says Al, and Ed whips round to squint suspiciously into his eyes. “What?”

“You two are fucking _disgusting_ ,” Ed says, turning back to his shoes (goddamn fucking laces; the automail is fucking up again.) “Why don’t you just- I don’t know, kiss already?”

Al blushes. “Shut up, Brother,” he says. “Do you need hand warmers?”

“ _God_ , yes,” Ed says, holding out his hands. “If the automail freezes up in the middle of my performance I am going to _kill_ someone.”

“Hopefully not Mr. Tall Dark And Handsome,” murmurs Al, giving the pack of hand warmers to Ed and opening the front door, “that would be a shame, since I haven’t even gotten to talk to him yet.”

It’s Ed’s turn to blush, and he does so ferociously. “What the fuck-? Al, wait, fuck you, it’s not- he doesn’t- _you’re_ the one I’m gonna kill if you don’t get back here-,”

 

And so it goes, until they’re pulling up outside the hall and Al’s shoving Ed backstage, sheet music flying into the air like feathers in a wind tunnel.

 

***

There he is, stepping out onto the stage with that predatory grace that Roy’s grown so accustomed to; as he takes a short bow, his eyes are scanning the crowd, searching…

His eyes find Roy’s, and he smiles.

Roy’s heart clenches.

Then Ed is walking over to the piano, automail flashing, running a hand over the keys like a greeting, sitting down, lazy and carelessly on form-

And he starts to play. Roy tries to fight it, just for a second; just to see if he can- but then Ed tosses his head back, flicking his hair out of his face, fingers skipping light and warm over the piano, and Roy’s gone. Lost. Drowning, in the best possible way.

***

Ten minutes before the show starts, the hand warmers _finally_ start working and Ed breathes a sigh of relief, working his metal fingers. He sits at the practice piano in the prep room and starts to play mindlessly, to loosen them up; Al and Winry’s chatter fading into the background as he does so. He blows out a long breath, letting his fingers wander across the keys; he plays scales, a sonata and, yeah, some of the _x files_ theme, feeling his joints stretch. His shoulders relax. He breathes.

God. Sometimes he thinks about what he’d be if he didn’t have music, and wants to curl in a ball and cry for an hour. Is Tall Dark And Handsome out there right now, sitting down, waiting for Ed? Where will he be in the crowd? At the back, like the first time they saw each other? In the middle, where he usually is? The front? He’s never been at the front before. Ed’s kind of glad about that; if he was in the front row he’d probably distract him, and then he really _would_ have to kill him.

Fucking _hell_ , he’s acting like- like some lovestruck fucking teenager. Never mind the fact that technically, he is a teenager; he’s been eighteen for, like, two months, which is legally a fucking adult. So, you know, whatever.

The thought of his birthday makes him scowl, and he plays harder, part of the piece he composed last night. He’s really fucking tired; hopefully he wouldn’t fall asleep in the middle of the show or something. That would suck.

It occurs to Ed that he never really cared about what the audience thought before Tall Dark And Handsome entered the scene. Before, it’d just been Ed, playing because he fucking wanted to, and if the audience loved it then that was just another bonus.  
Now, it’s like he has someone to impress.

 _Whatever your name is,_ Ed thinks, _fuck you for making me nervous. You asshole._

Righteous anger had always kind of been his thing, anyway.

“It’s time!” The runner boy pokes his head through the door, and Ed sighs, sliding the lid of the piano shut.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says, and when they exit the room, he goes one way and they go the other.

***

Ed gives Al and Winry another minute or so to find their seats before he walks onstage. He barely notices the applause that greets him; the piano in the centre of the room is the whole world. The thousand faceless audience members are nothing.

Well. Not all of them. He remember to bow just as he reaches the piano; his eyes scan the crowd, hoping, searching; for a second he thinks he’s not here, that he was mistaken, and his stomach twists- but then he finds him. Sitting five rows back. Wearing a goddamn _gorgeous_ suit.  
 Not that Ed knows anything about clothing; he’s just assuming that since Tall Dark And Very, Very Handsome is looking hot as _hell_ in said suit, it must be a good one.

The asshole who’s making him feel seasick is staring, openly; his mouth is a little bit open and Ed can’t help it, he smiles. No one’s looked at him like that, like he’s something precious, something amazing, in…well, fuck it, in forever. Not even Ling-

He straightens, walks to the piano; it’s cool to touch despite being under the stage lights for at least an hour, and he runs his fingers over the keys, slides onto the bench.

He eases into the first piece like he’s sinking into a pool- and damn does Ed wish it was pool season. At least in summer he could cool the automail off with, like, ice packs and cold showers; in winter the freezing air finds a way to permeate every cell in his body, and it hurts like a _bitch_.

His bangs are slipping into his eyes; he shakes his head back, not faltering, and plays on. Music is like a really simple form of therapy, Ed thinks; he started off originally when he first got the automail, as a kind of exercise to get him used to using the alien lump of metal he’d been newly attached to, and he’d just…carried on.

And people had told him he was really good, and he hadn’t really believed them, and then when Al had woken up from the coma (oh, yeah, back in those good old days when the piano was the only fucking coping mechanism Ed _had_ , when his brother was lifeless and unmoving on a fucking hospital bed, when Ed didn’t know if he was going to live or die and it was slowly destroying him from the inside out) he’d listened, and looked up at him with the Serious look on his face, and told him to enter a competition.  
And he did, and for Al’s sake he practiced, and practiced, and he’d won that competition, not by much but he’d _won_ , and slowly he started to realise that the automail might be a bitch in the heat and a bitch in the cold, and it might by painful, and it might be really fucking heavy- but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do things just as well as anyone else could. It didn’t make him any _less_.  
And he’d decided to prove it. By entering more competitions, and practicing, and practicing, and then he was winning cash prizes and TV spotlights, and they’d moved to the city and bought a flat, and they were _happy_.  
If this was a cheesy coming-of-age book, this would be the part where the narrator said something about how this symbolised Ed moving on from the past and creating a new life with his own two hands, or some shit.

Fortunately, this wasn’t a cheesy coming-of-age book, and Ed was coming to the end of his first piece.

He glances into the audience, and Al waves at him. He grins. Dumbass. Trying to distract him; that wasn’t going to happen. Ed could play the piano in his sleep.

(True story; one time he’d woken up halfway through Chopin’s “Fantasie” Impromptu, with Al filming him. Ed’s pretty sure it’s somewhere on YouTube now.)

He finishes the first piece to thunderous applause, stands up to stretch his legs and bow again, and he looks over at Winry to find her mouthing _is he here?_ along with exaggerated gestures.  
 Ed- looks away. Fucking hell, he’s on _stage_ , it’s not like he can just fucking _point him out_ or something.  
Speaking of _him_ …

Tall Dark And Handsome is smiling at him, this kind of slow, suave, _knee-weakeningly charming_ smile that makes Ed sit back down in a hurry. Fuck. He’s pretty sure his cheeks are bright red. Double-fuck.

He clears his throat; the audience takes this a cue and quietens the fuck down. Oh, shit. What was he playing next? Oh, right, yeah- what a coincidence. Chopin. Not “Fantasie”, though maybe he’ll do that one next if he feels like it; he sets his fingers on the keys, and, with a small breath, begins to play.

“Revolutionary” Etude. One of his favourites; it’s fast and kind of angry, so Ed can really pour himself into it and just fucking- forget. Everything.

He swallows, focuses on the keys. God. Get it together, Ed, you asshole.

 

***

Roy is cursing himself as he leaves the hall. Why did he smile? He had a line, and now he’s gone and crossed it, and what the hell is he supposed to do now? Ed’s face…oh, god.

Karin, the woman with the flowers, is waiting for him.

“Are you leaving it unsigned again?” she asks, and Roy bites his lip.

“I don’t even know if I’m going to buy them today,” he admits, and she frowns.

“Why not?” she asks, “Was it that bad?”

“No, god, no,” says Roy, “No, it was…incredible, as usual.” Why is saying this? He doesn’t even _know_ this woman. “I just…I don’t believe it’s appropriate for me to-,”

“You know, every night after a show he rushes out as fast as he can to look for you. Last time, he only missed you by about a minute,” Karin informs him, and Roy blinks. “I don’t know him personally, but I’m always here, selling flowers. And I’ve gotten fairly good at telling how people are feeling, in my years.”

She picks out a bouquet, handing it to Roy with a pen. “He’s interested,” she says, “That much, I know.”

Roy…should never have gone on a date with Laura.

He uncaps the pen.

 

***

 

Tall Dark And Handsome is going through the door, and Ed is sprinting offstage, snatching his sheets from the piano and almost tripping over his damn feet as he tumbles down the steps backstage and trips into the corridor; he kicks open the practice room door, throws the paper inside and darts back out again- Al can pick that shit up, or he could just leave it here; he doesn’t care-

He rams into the double doors, bounces back off again because _they don’t open that way_ , fucking _ouch_ ; he grabs the handles and _yanks_ , almost hitting himself in the face with them and he’s sprinting, down the corridor, blood thrumming, chest heaving, because fuck this, _fuck_ this, it’s gone too far and if he doesn’t even get this guy’s fucking _name_ he’s going to _scream_.

He bursts through the doors into the foyer and is immediately accosted by a group of audience members; he stares at them blankly before he registers that they’re asking for autographs and he almost swears out loud, snatching up the offered pens, scribbling his name, his initials, his signature, what-the-fuck- _ever_ across their programmes, shouldering past them saying, “Sorry, I’m in a rush, yeah, sorry, I’m glad you enjoyed it-,”

And-

And-

For a second he’s suspended in midair; eyes flicking wildly from corner to corner, and then-

Karin’s cart, by the door, and in front of it, holding a bunch of fucking flowers- _fuck you Winry I_ knew _it was the same guy; who’s the one who owes fifty fucking cens now, huh?-_ is Tall Dark And Handsome.

Ed knows that this isn’t a movie, but is sure as hell feels like one, as time slows down and voices fade, and it’s him, right there, eyes wide in shock, flowers loose in one hand, pen tumbling to the floor in slow fucking motion.

Ed’s heart is beating a drumline in his ears.

He walks forward, eyes fixed on the dark ones in front of him ( _above_ him, dammit, _not_ because he’s short but because this guy is a mutant genetically engineered to be taller than the average human out of pure spite, _obviously_ ) and comes to a stop a metre away.

Tall Dark And Handsome doesn’t move.

Ed takes a deep breath.

“By the way,” he says, “I fucking hate flowers.”

 

 

***

 

Ed is standing in front of him, face flushed, breathing heavily; his hair is dishevelled, his eyes are burning, and he fucking hates flowers.

Roy struggles for words, comes up empty.

“I’m…sorry?” he tries, and Ed’s expression- wavers. 

“You should be,” he says, and his eyes narrow. “You know I’ve got, like, _six_ fucking vases full of these things at home, right? What if I’d been allergic or some shit? My death could’ve been on your hands.”

Roy is not entirely sure where this conversation is going, but he’s in too deep now, so what the hell, he just goes with it.

“I’m sure that if you were allergic to them, you would’ve made it known by now. Possibly by eviscerating me simply y the force of your glare.”

Ed stares at him for a moment longer, and Roy thinks, for a second, oh _shit_ , I’ve fucked up, I said something wrong, I’ve _fucked up_ -

And then he starts laughing, and the relief floods through him like a tidal wave.

He turns, holds the flowers out to Karin. “Here,” he says, “I think I’d better return these-,”

“Hold up a second, asshole,” says Ed, and Roy turns back to face him. At the sight of his face- angular, sharp, striking eyes framed by dark lashes, the blinding sweep of his fringe as he pushes it out of the way- his heart stutters, staggers, and manages to keep going. “I never said I didn’t _want_ them.”

He holds out his hand, and though his gesture is bold, his cheeks are burning dark red. Roy can’t help it. He smiles, slow and smoky, and hands the flowers over, brushing Ed’s fingers with his own as he does so.

If it’s possible, Ed’s face goes even darker, and he snatches the flowers away, turning his head to the side. He clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says, “So. D’you- d’you even _have_ a name?”

Roy grins, looks up at the ceiling mock-thoughtful. “Well,” he says slowly, “I suppose I _do_ have one, yes.”

Ed raises an eyebrow. “So what is it, asshole?” he asks, and if it were anyone else, Roy would probably be wincing at the amount of swearing going on here, but as it stands he finds it pretty damn adorable, actually.

He reflects on this fact while Ed glares at him, and decides that he is done for.

“Roy Mustang,” he says, holding out a hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ed- bursts out laughing.

Roy frowns.

Well, then.

“No,” gasps Ed, “Wait! Sorry, sorry- I just- shit-,” he covers his mouth with his hand, squeezing his eyes tight shut, and the part of Roy that isn’t offended thinks that he is utterly mesmerising, laughter bubbling out of him like water from a stream, and gold and sparks and burnished silver automail.

He’s really, really done for.

“I- sorry, shit- I-,” Ed straightens up, manages to get his laughter under control, and sticks out his own hand to shake. The automail hand. Through the remnants of laughter, Roy sees something else in Ed’s eyes. Hesitation. Wariness.  
He wonders how many people have shied away from the automail, how many people have thought it’s anything less than a work of art.

He shakes.

“Edward Elric,” says Ed, “Call me Ed, though, ‘Edward’ is really fuckin’ pretentious.”

“Well, you _are_ a concert pianist,” says Roy without thinking, and- whoops, fucked it up-

But no, he should have known better than that, because Ed is laughing again, less explosively this time and he’s looking at Roy with something like curiosity in his eyes.

When Roy releases his hand, Ed stares at it for a second like he can’t quite believe it just happened, and Roy is really, really, truly, honestly, _done for._

“Um,” says Ed, “Sorry for- uh- sorry for laughing. It’s just. I don’t know it’s just an unusual surname. That’s all. Shit. Sorry. I’ll just- I’ll just go-,”

“No,” says Roy quickly, before Ed can do more than turn away, “It’s alright. Actually, your reaction was rather less insulting than the reactions I’ve been met with before.”

Ed is turning back to him, peering up at him through his hair like he’s waiting for the punchline. “So…I haven’t mortally offended you or anything?”

“Not mortally,” says Roy, and smiles. “I’ll survive.”

He wants to- he wants to- he doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t _know_. That’s kind of scary.

“So…” Ed is still looking at him as if he’s anticipating a rejection.

“Brother! Broth- oh.”

A shout from across the room draws both their attention; Ed spins round as Roy looks up. A boy with the exact same shade of golden eyes as Ed is staring at them from the doorway, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Oh, shit,” mutters Ed. “Al! Hey, uh, this is- this is Roy!”

 _Oh, shit_ , indeed, thinks Roy; this ‘Al’ must be Ed’s brother. He’s staring at Roy with a calculating expression that suggests he’s considering murder as an appropriate way to greet him.

“Hello,” he says, finally, and moves across the room to stick out his hand. “I’m Alphonse. Ed’s brother.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” says Roy, trying not to cower, and shakes. Alphonse’s grip is like iron- Ed’s automail was made of less metal than this one.

It comes to his attention that the room has completely emptied apart from them, and Karin, who is humming lightly as she packs up her flowers behind them.  
If Alphonse decides to kill him, there’s a chance that he’ll get away with it. 

“So, Roy, what intentions do you have toward my brother?” Al asks casually, releasing his crushing grip on Roy’s hand and meeting his gaze with an equally iron stare, “Because I have to say, if they’re anything less than-,”

“Ed, Al, you left your- oh!” Another shout, another falter, and then a streak of blonde hair has sped across the room and has taken Al’s place. “Are you the flower guy?” She asks, and Roy resists the urge to gulp. Behind him, Karin is laughing again.

  
What did he do to deserve the tenth degree? Usually, he doesn’t meet family members until at _least_ the second date.

“I am,” he says carefully, and the girl looks him up and down before sticking out her own hand.

“Winry Rockbell,” she says briskly, “long-time best friend of these two idiots.”

“Roy Mustang,” he says, and shakes. Her hand, too, has a grip like a vice intent on grinding all his bones to dust. “The flow guy, I suppose.”

Winry- laughs. Then she smiles, and then she turns to Al, and there is some rapid communication through the use of eyebrow movements and hand gestures, and she turns back to Roy, eyes gleaming.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Roy,” she says, “me and Al have to get going now, excuse me-,” and she takes Al by the arm and they start to walk away. Ed turns to Roy, opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Al has returned, fixed Roy with a look of gentle sincerity made all the more terrifying by his open, honest face, and says,

“If you hurt him, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt _you_. It’s not personal, and you seem very nice, but unfortunately my brother’s happiness is the most important thing in the world to me, so when it comes down to it, I’m always going to place him over anyone else. Sorry.”

And then he’s gone again.

“Jeez, Al, you could’ve saved the shovel speech for a _different_ time,” Ed shouts after him, and turns back to Roy. “Um. Sorry. About that. You probably- yeah.”

He’s looking away again, and all at once Roy decides, you know what, fuck it, he _wants_ this. He wants to make Ed laugh, again. He wants to make him smile, and talk to him about music, and about the parts of him that _aren’t_ music; and before all that, he wants to take him on a date.

So he smiles again, steps a little closer, and says, “May I take you out to dinner?”

Ed- blinks. Looks up at him like he thinks he’s joking or something, looks away, then looks up again as if to check.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and now it’s Roy’s turn to blink. No one’s ever said _that_ in reply to an invitation on a date before.

“Abut as sure as I can be,” he says, “of course, if you don’t want to then that’s-,”

“No, I want to,” says Ed instantly, and squints up at him, “it’s just…you had the shovel speech from Al, and you lived through Winry’s handshake- credit to you for that, by the way, because those are fuckin'  _brutal-_ and, I mean, I’ve insulted you, like, seventeen times already and- are you sure?”

Roy looks at him, this boy with music in his veins and gold in his eyes, and says, “Utterly.”

Ed’s cheeks dust pink, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a phone. “Here,” he says, “Lemme- lemme get your number. And then I’ll- I’ll call you. Or something.”

“Sure,” says Roy, “sounds perfect.” He pulls out his phone, too, reels off his number for Ed, who punches it in lightning-fast, and then Ed gives him his number, and then- they’re there. Standing in the foyer of the concert hall, both of them smiling.

“Is this Saturday alright?” Roy asks, “You have a concert, right? There’s this great steak place down the road- we could go after, if that’s okay with you.”

Ed is grinning at him. “You had me at ‘steak place’,” he says, “I’ll meet you…here, then?”

“Okay,” says Roy, and they stand there for a minute, grinning at each other, and Roy feels light and full of air.

“Okay,” repeats Ed, “I need to- I think I need to go now. But, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll see you Saturday,” says Roy, and Ed nods, smile widening.

“See you Saturday.”

 

And then he was gone, whisking out of the door in a flash of gold and silver, and Roy turns around to find Karin standing there, nodding at him as if to say _well done_.

He doesn’t really know what to say to her, so he just stands there for a second, and decides on, “thank you.”

She waves it off, pushing her cart  ahead of her as she makes her way to the door. “Not at all, not at all,” she says, “And good luck on Saturday.”  
 She turns the corner and heads down the road, towards the florists’ down the street and Roy stands there in the doorway for a full five minutes, hands slowly turning numb with cold, as he smiles up at the sky.

Then he calls a taxi, and resumes his staring while he waits for it to arrive.

He’s going on a date- with Edward Elric, no less. And, really, with the music still echoing in his ears, with the smell of flowers still lingering on his clothes, he couldn’t be happier about it.


End file.
